


All Things Bright And Beautiful

by pipistrelle



Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Daemons, F/M, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 08:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17556524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipistrelle/pseuds/pipistrelle
Summary: Maggie's always been good at people, and good at reading peoples' daemons.





	All Things Bright And Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully part one of a three-part series. This all takes place before the Christmas episode (as you'll see). Daemons are clarified in the separate glossary, but for completeness:
> 
> Maggie: Tulipan, Tulio for short, male golden-tailed sapphire hummingbird.  
> Mel: Aequitas, called Quito (mostly by Maggie and Tulio), a male Luzon Bleeding-Heart.  
> Macey: Thales, a male common raven.  
> Marisol: Mnemosyne, a female Great Egret.  
> Harry: Barnabas, a male gray British shorthair cat.  
> Parker: Persephone, a female ocelot (melanistic).

"Till again shall the change come, and words your lips say not  
Your hearts make all plain in the best wise they would  
And the world ye thought waning is glorious and good.”

- _Love is Enough_ , William Morris

There’s an app called SoulTrax, marketed to children under thirteen (“WITH PARENTAL PERMISSION ONLY!”)  that lets you track your daemon’s favorite shapes. It’s supposed to help you predict what form you’ll settle as — 18% chance you’ll be a lizard, 23% chance you’ll be a dog, that kind of thing. It even gives you nice little pie charts you can share on Facebook or Instagram. Everyone at Maggie’s school is completely obsessed with it.

“That’s total bullshit,” Mel says when Maggie shows it to her. Mel is seventeen, knows everything and isn’t afraid of being punished for using bad language. To Maggie, who’s twelve, Mel is smarter than all their teachers combined and more influential than the President.

Aequitas shifts impatiently on Mel’s shoulder. “We were reading an article about this in the New York Times last week. It’s scientifically impossible to predict how anyone’s going to settle. Sure, there are general trends, but at least 15% of daemons settle in shapes they’ve never taken before.”

“And even if you could predict it, what’s the point?” Mel continues. “To start pre-judging yourself and burdening yourself with the stereotypes of society before you’re even settled? So we can make classifying people by their daemons’ shapes a self-fulfilling prophecy? All that does is further systems of oppression—”

Maggie wanders away after a while, but Mel doesn't mind. (Mel never minds when Maggie leaves mid-rant, because Aequitas is a much better debate partner than Maggie is anyway.) Mel eventually goes on to write a paper for her sociology class entitled “Daemon Profiling: The Advent of Societal Pressures on Pre-Teen Girls”, that gets an A. Mom hangs it on the fridge, and Maggie feels a warm glow of pride every time she looks at it. She tells everyone that her sister is, like, a _genius_ , and she's going to be a professor, and Maggie and Tulio are helping with her research, and they're gonna change the _world_.

* * *

 

Maggie's always been good at people. When Mel was in high school, spending her lunch periods getting into impassioned, disruptive arguments with anyone who would sit still long enough and getting suspended for flipping off homophobic teenage boys, Maggie was the most popular girl at Hilltowne Junior High (as evidenced by her yearbook, which was beautifully designed, because she was head of the yearbook committee). While Mel was in college, finally getting her footing in the counterculture and realizing the depth of her own homosexuality and all the bullshit that brought down on her, Maggie was in high school, and everyone loved her except her teachers. Where Mel excelled academically, Maggie hung out at a solid "mediocre", but where Mel struggled socially, Maggie soared. Teachers at Hilltowne High were disappointed that Maggie didn't live up to her sister's legacy, but it was kind of an open question who grew up in whose shadow.

"Tell me your secrets," Mel groans more than once, burying her face in a pillow after she's accidentally scared off some girl she liked or got frozen out of a casual book club after she called the last author's inherent racial bias into question.

Every time she asks, Maggie tells Mel her secrets. "People spend all day telling you exactly who they are and what they want," she says. "All you have to do is listen to them. And watch their daemons, that's where you'll see what they're not saying."

"That is ridiculously simplistic and overgeneralized, and also easy for you to say," Mel retorts, because she's not listening. That's okay. No one ever does.

* * *

 

Laura Hernandez's daemon spends all his time as a peacock, because Laura needs to be the center of attention all the time, but in seventh grade he settles as tiny gray mouse, because Laura's need for attention has just been to cover up how small and helpless and insecure she feels. Maggie doesn't understand why everyone else in their grade treats it like this huge mystery. She doesn't understand why Misty Haverman is so terrified of her daemon settling as a bug, when he's only turned into a moth, like, one time, and Misty is one of the most extroverted girls in the whole school. Sometimes, as a game when she's bored in class, Tulio perches on Maggie's shoulder as a sparrow small enough to hide under her hair, and he whispers in her ear what everyone's daemon will settle as. When she's bored to the point of dozing off, sometimes she thinks she can see faint, fragile golden auras around her classmates' souls, showing what they'll become: a hare, an iguana, a mole.

She never sees that haze around Tulio, but it's no mystery that he'll settle as a bird. Mom's Mnemosyne and Mel's Aequitas are both birds, and Tulio's hardly ever been without wings since Maggie turned eleven. People with bird daemons are supposed to be more self-sufficient than average, and to prize freedom very highly, sometimes at the expense of things like lasting friendships. To value family, but not community. Later, of course, she also finds out that the vast majority of witches have bird daemons, and maybe Tulio was predestined to have wings and it doesn't say anything about who she is at all.

 She asks Harry about it, one morning when they're in the kitchen blearily making coffee and tea. "It can't just be because it's convenient to have a flying daemon when you're separated," she says. "Peoples' daemons don't settle as whatever because it's _convenient_. If they did, no one would ever settle as a, as a dolphin, or a lion. Or a moose."

"I once knew a fellow with a horse daemon," Harry says. "Saved a great deal of money on petrol."

"So how come so many witches have birds? And how come the three of us all settled as birds? We weren't even witches back then."

Harry yawns, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. His daemon Barnabas, lounging indolently on the table exactly like an actual cat, yawns too, showing his startlingly white fangs. "You raise an intriguing point. One must postulate that there are some personality traits inherent to being a witch that increase the tendency towards winged daemons." He pauses. "Flightiness, perhaps?"

Maggie snaps her fingers in front of his face. "Stop being passive-aggressive about Mel missing witch practice, Harry. Focus. You've met more witches than we have. You've met the Elders. Is it just genetics? Is it something about magic?"

This time there's a longer pause, as Harry thinks. He's not as glib these days, Maggie's noticed. He takes time to reflect before he answers their questions, and his answers are gentler, less arrogant. He doesn't feel so desperate to prove himself anymore, which means he's feeling more like one of the family.

It's a long enough pause that Maggie has time to return to the nagging thought that drove her to ask the question: what else Tulio might have been, if they hadn't been destined to be the Charmed Ones, marked down from birth to be a witch regardless of anything else they were. If they might have been able to be anything different.

"This is perhaps an issue best settled by the witch who is also a geneticist," Harry says at last, "but since you are asking for an opinion informed by my experience, I would say that being a witch -- accepting magic, wielding magic -- requires a modicum of faith."

That's not what Maggie's expecting. She glances up at him, in time to catch his rueful smile. "Call it a capacity for faith," he amends. "An ability to trust the unknown and unknowable. To launch oneself off the cliff of the world one understands, without fear of falling. Whether that capacity is genetic or not, I can't say. But it was one of your mother's most sterling qualities, and the three of you certainly possess it in spades."

Tulio has been flitting around the kitchen from sunbeam to sunbeam, glittering like a jewel, and now he lights briefly on Harry's shoulder. Without skin contact there's no shock, no violation of taboo, but it's an unusual enough gesture that Harry looks down and mutters embarrassed protests into his tea, pleased at being so trusted.

"Thank you, Harry," Maggie says. "That means a lot."

* * *

 

Maggie still remembers -- will always remember -- the morning after her fifth birthday party, coming out onto the landing to see Mom sitting on the floor of the living room in front of the door, knees pulled up to her chest, crying.

In the memory there's some scrap of dark fabric clenched in Mom's fist, a hat or a tie that Dad didn't take with him, and Mom cries in these horrible deep gasps, like nothing Maggie's ever heard before. Mnemosyne stands over her, white wings outspread, sheltering Mom from all the pain and sorrow in the world. Those same wings have engulfed Maggie whenever she's hurt, or sick, or scared, and the thought that Mom is so hurt she needs to hide under her own daemon's wings makes Maggie start to cry. When Mel comes out of her room, that's how she finds them: her little sister clinging to the banister and crying, her mother crying downstairs, no lunches made for school, no Dad in the house or the neighborhood or the state. Really, it's no wonder that Mel never forgave him.

He calls the house that first year at Thanksgiving, in the middle of dinner, and Mom leaves the table for an hour to argue with him over the phone. Maggie remembers that less clearly; Tulio recalls Aequitas changing into a mouse and playing hide-and-seek games to keep them distracted while Mom's voice gets louder and louder from the next room. Somehow, it's decided that Dad's going to come visit them on Christmas. Maggie's more excited about Dad than Santa Claus. Maybe when he comes home and sees how sad everyone's been, he'll realize that he should stay and things can go back to normal.

That isn't how it happens, of course. Dad backs out at the last minute, sending a handful of very expensive but deeply inadequate presents in his place. The next year he really does make it. The three after that are utter failures. And so it goes. Mel just gets angrier with every dashed hope, because anger is easy for her, it keeps her moving. Maggie's never found anger comfortable or easy; much easier to cry her eyes out for a day or two and then forgive, keep hoping that next year will be better.

"You have a brave heart," Mnemosyne says to Maggie and Tulio, when they're fourteen and Dad has bailed yet again and Maggie's crushed because she wanted to show him Tulio's newly settled form. "If he saw you, he'd be almost as proud of you as I am."

They're cuddled up on the couch, the pitcher of _coquito_ half empty, the fire blazing and the tree casting a dim red and green glow on the window and the snow beyond. Tulio lands on the rim of the pitcher and pokes his beak into it, tasting it cautiously. Mom says, "A hummingbird suits you -- both of you. You've always looked for the sweetness in everything. In fact, you've always been the sweetest one in this family -- but don't tell your sister."

Maggie giggles. The _coquito_ is going to her head, and with it the awful sense of Dad's absence is fading a little.

Mel comes into the living room with a tray of cookies and a scowl. The cookies are shaped like hummingbirds in Tulio's honor. The scowl is one of the effects of Dad's broken promises and will wear off by January. "Don't tell me what?"

"That Maggie's already planning next year's family Christmas. Right?" Mom ruffles Maggie's hair, and shoves a pile of wrapping paper onto the floor to make room for Mel on her other side.

Mel lets herself fall back onto the couch with a sigh, Aequitas in her lap. "You know this happens every year. How long are you going to keep hoping that he'll miraculously change?"

People tell you who they are, and what they want, and Dad is telling them that he's scared and angry and miserable and guilty and he wants to be a part of their family but can't. "Until it works," Maggie says.

"We live in hope," Mnemosyne says softly.

* * *

 

The morning of Mom's funeral, Maggie wakes to silence.

It's been silent for a week now, and every morning it hits Maggie all over again. She waits for while curled up in bed to see if she'll cry, but today is one of the hollow days. Tulio tucks himself against the curve of her shoulder, and she focuses on the thrum of his fast little heart until she can get up and cross the room to the vanity. She laid everything out there last night: black dress, long black gloves, stockings, shoes. This is the part of things that Maggie handled. Niko's been dealing with the cops, Mel's been dealing with the lawyers, and they left Maggie to handle the things she's good at: the family, the clothes, and the flowers.

Tulio flits nervously around her, tugging the gloves down her arms, fixing her hair in the black barrette with his clever little beak. When she's done he perches on her shoulder and they look at themselves in the mirror; black-clad, hollow-eyed, grieving but composed. The only thing out of place is Tulio, bright and shining. Like a jewel, like a flower, all the beautiful things that withered a week ago when they looked into the backyard and saw --

"I can fix it," Tulio murmurs. He flutters into the bathroom, pushes open the medicine cabinet in the mirror and pecks at the lid of a black jar until Maggie comes and opens it. Some super-fancy activated charcoal and sea salt face scrub that Lucy saw at Lush and wanted to try. Tulio lands in it and starts kicking it up with his feet and wings, bathing in it like a fountain. When he looks up at her again he's soot-black all over.

Maggie touches the top of his head, revealing a glint of sapphire underneath, then covers it back up. "I feel like I should cover you with hairspray," she says. "Like a sealer-coat." Her throat is closing up and her eyes are hot. But he's her daemon, of course he knows, not just how she feels but what to do, what she needs, to show the world the hurt, the loss.

"Bring the jar," he says. "We'll reapply."

A cry of agony splits the silence of the house. Maggie scoops up her daemon and darts down the hall to Mel's room. Mel is on the floor, sitting against the side of her bed, not only _not_ in the black dress Maggie bought for her, but still in yesterday's sweatshirt and jeans. She's cradling Aequitas in her arms, and something in the protective hunch of her shoulders reminds Maggie of the day that Dad left, the way that Mnemosyne stood with her wings spread over Mom, trying to shield her from what had already happened.

The look in Mel's eyes brings Maggie to the edge of tears again. Aequitas looks in her arms like he really has been shot, like he really is bleeding to death. He hasn't made a single sound of any kind for the past week but now he's murmuring something, the same thing, over and over again. "I am not resigned. I am not resigned. I am not resigned."

Maggie's phone buzzes in her jacket pocket. She glances at it, swallowing back tears. "Niko's waiting in the car downstairs," she says. She steps past Mel and Aequitas to the plain black dress hanging in the closet. "Let's get you ready, okay?"

* * *

 

“What is she?” Maggie says shyly. “If you don’t mind me asking."

It's November already, but real winter is still a few weeks away. There's a chill in the evening air, but not enough for gloves or a scarf yet, just a light leather jacket and boots. After Thanksgiving, it'll be too cold for Tulio and he'll have to huddle down on Maggie's shoulder or in her pocket, but tonight he's free to flit from tree to bench to flower, pretending to investigate whatever's along the side of the path, like there's going to be anything interesting on Hillside campus. Parker's daemon follows him, though, like he might actually find something. She's sleek and silent, like a shadow, fading away as the last light of sunset makes Tulio shine.

Parker snorts. "As if I'd mind you asking. You might be the only person who's ever asked. She's a cat, obviously."

"No, she's not." Maggie grins at Parker's startled sideways glance. She was fooled at first too, but she's been watching him and his daemon for weeks now and she's sure. "Not a normal cat, anyway." Parker raises an eyebrow and she winces. "Not like she's _not_ normal, I just meant -- yikes. You know what I mean, though. Not a -- not a housecat. Right?"

She knows she's right. Parker's daemon's ears are too round, her body too lean and muscled, her claws too long and sharp. And Parker has the reserve, the self-possession of a cat person, but there's something else in him, too, something that she can't quite figure out. It lives along the sharp edge of his intellect, it's what drove him away from Lucy, what makes him so startling sometimes. Something in him is less ordinary, less _domesticated_ than he seems to want everyone to believe.

He smiles, hesitant at first but then surer, stronger. The sight of it warms Maggie to her toes. "You are really remarkable, Maggie Vera," he says. "I don't think anyone's ever noticed that on their own before. She's an ocelot; they're not usually black." He pauses, considering, then adds quietly, "Her name's Persephone."

"Goddess of spring," Maggie says promptly, and then, gentler, "kidnapped by Hades and forced to marry him against her will."

Parker, unwillingly dragged halfway to the land of the dead by his own immune system, just nods at her, like it doesn't even bother him. He's brave, braver than she ever realized. "Good job, Vera. Been doing your reading after all?"

"Hey, you're the one who's the literary genius or whatever. I just happened to tune in on the day we were talking about hot guys in togas."

He laughs. Tulio zips over to whisper something in Persephone's ear, and she laughs too, a soft _huff_ and lazy sweep of her tail. Maggie finds herself wondering how soft that fur must be, then blushes at the thought -- _slow down, jeez_ \-- and Tulio flutters ahead, propelled by her embarrassment, and Persephone follows, low to the ground, ears back, tail high. Playing at hunting, Maggie thinks. Chasing her, like she's not already caught.

She's distracted from watching the daemons when Parker slips his fingers between hers. His hand is cold, and she squeezes it, to warm him up. She feels her stomach drop and her head spin as Tulio swoops and whirls, and knows Persephone must have pounced and missed. Feeling bold, she says, "What are you going to do when you catch me?"

Parker tugs her to a stop and as she turns to face him he's already brushing his fingertips against her cheek, tilting her chin up with his thumb. Out of the corner of her eye Maggie sees Tulio land and Persephone wrap herself around him, shadow swallowing him up, the deep rumble of her purr engulfing him, engulfing them both.

Parker's smiling as he leans down to kiss her. "Guess you'll have to wait and find out," he murmurs.


End file.
